


Sometimes I Still Find It Hard To Believe

by th_esaurus



Category: American Animals (2018)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gross, M/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: He was always the fidgeter in class and you were the quiet one, silent and still and better at drawing than you were at anything else, and that made you dumb, when you were young, silent and still and dumb, practically invisible, but Warren had come up to you in seventh grade and leaned his chin on your shoulder, his airy blonde hair tickling your cheek and said, “Hey, whatcha drawing?” and since then--Well, there’d been a lot of stuff since then.





	Sometimes I Still Find It Hard To Believe

**Author's Note:**

> NOBODY'S SEEN THIS MOVIE BUT OH WELL.

Warren was saying, “No, relax your _throat_ ,” and you laughed, a frantic sort of giggle, because you didn’t even know what that meant, and because Warren always made you laugh, and because you were drunk as you’d ever been, New York City drunk, drunker even than when the two of you had found his mother’s stash of cheap, hard cider and sat on the porch swing chair swilling it until you had barfed violently in Warren’s dad’s flower beds and Warren had sent himself near asthmatic with hysterics, crawling over the creaky old floorboards and reaching his hand out to you and grabbing at your calf, crying with laughter--

Anyway, you were giggling badly and it sounded dumb. Your mouth was open, a _say ahh_ pose, dentist’s chair chic, but Warren kept poking two fingers against your Adam’s apple like you had a second orifice there that’d gawp open if he prodded at it enough. His shirt, also, was off, and his pants were around his thighs, and he still had his briefs on but you could see the wet tip of his boner peeking up through the waistband. That made you start giggling again. His briefs were saggy and blue. It kept slipping down and back up again, like a bobbing apple at Halloween.

Probably Warren was going to put his boner in your mouth any time now. That was okay; like, you’d thought about it. Not any time recently. When you were younger. You’d thought, like, it would be fine if Warren put his dick inside of you. If it never happened, that’d be fine too. Whatever.

“Your throat, dude, your throat,” he was saying again, making dumb gagging noises to demonstrate.

“What the fuck are you even talking about?” you said, always giggling.

“You know how they do it in porno,” Warren said, sounding something between serious and trying to sound serious. “So the guy can stick his dick all the way right in. Like a pussy.”

“Why not just fuck a pussy?”

“You’re a fucking pussy,” Warren said, shoving you, and you didn’t know if he misheard you but it didn’t matter because you were both laughing, forgetting to breathe, laughing too much to stay upright, and he collapsed on top of you, his mouth hot, his chest hot, everything was hot and the hotel blanket was scratching your back and Warren’s stubble was scratching your neck and you kept thinking about the time you and Warren had loitered around in the parking lot at Carter’s at 3am, waiting for the friend of a guy who said he knew someone who could score them some weed, and it had been so cold, Warren hopping frantically from one foot to the other while you kept deadly still because you didn’t want to look suspicious, and Warren had leant on you and put the tip of his freezing nose against your jaw and shoved his hands down the back of your jeans, right against your ass, to keep them warm, and the guy never showed up, or maybe it was a cousin, not a friend, but anyway, he never showed up, and you never got that weed, just Warren’s icy palms slowly thawing against your pale skin, your skinny ass--

You were thinking about that, you realised, probably because Warren’s thumb-tips were nudging at your waistband, trying to get your pants off. You still had on your belt. That was hysterical. Neither of you had the dexterity to unbuckle it. If you couldn’t even--

You couldn’t undo your own fucking belt--

How in the hell were you gonna rob--

Warren, sloppily, put his open mouth against yours. “Oh,” you said, but it came out more like _eugh_ , which made you stop laughing. You hadn’t meant _eugh_. You’d just meant--

Oh.

Because Warren was kissing you.

He’d kissed you on the mouth a couple times before. Pursing his lips, grabbing your jaw, squashing in your cheeks; noisy smackers that made you screw up your eyes and laugh and paw at his chest, pushing him away without really pushing him away at all. Stupid, boyish kisses that bubbled up from the same well of joy that swilled in Warren’s belly as when he got you in a bullish headlock, scrubbed his knuckles across your scalp, or ruffled your hair with his sweaty palm, or hooked his arm around your waist and tugged you towards him, elasticated, back and forth while you made a show of trying to escape.

This was making out, though. This was Warren’s tongue flooding your mouth. It was okay. Like, you wished he’d ease up and pay attention to actually kissing you than just filling your mouth up with his spit, but then, if he thought about that for any length of time, he’d probably stop, and you didn’t have the wiles in you to coax him back, so you just--

It was nice where your hands were on his waist. That little bit of skin-to-skin. You were still all dressed. His sweating chest was making your tee damp at the front.

You’d smell like him, in the morning; or you’d smell like the both of you.

You didn’t want to think about the morning yet, though.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Warren hissed, pulling back so fast his spittle dripped spryly on your lips and chin. “Why are you still--?!”

And he was pulling at your belt again, both of you, four hands no more help than two, so you sucked in your stomach and held your breath and clenched your ass and wriggled up the mattress - how many girls, you wondered, had been fucked on this hotel mattress, had open-mouth keened into the pillows, or how many boys, their mouths saving the sheets from a fresh come-stain, and would that be you, in a moment, would that be you, swallowing Warren’s jizz instead of watching it seep into the bad cotton - anyway, anyway, you shifted your hips back and forth and Warren tugged down until your pants and briefs both skipped over your pelvis with a jolt that sent Warren reeling, fresh fits of laughter, and slapped your boner against your navel.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Warren yawped, trying to breathe and laugh and kick off his jeans and clamber back up your body all at the same time.

You’d never been very coordinated. Warren, a trainee sportsman, had a modicum of discipline about his body. He did a day a week of weights, powerlifting, and his legs were strong-ish from soccer, so he held himself above you in a weird kind of plank, unshaking. He was looking down between your bodies at where your dicks almost touched, though, and that made his forehead brush yours. Sweaty.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Warren said again, kind of an awed hiss, and he let his body fall just a little way, just until you and him were touching for real, still enough space for him to get his hand down between you, wrap you both in his fist, still able to hold himself up on the one arm but not for long, maybe, not for long, he was shaking; he was shaking and you were deadly still, he was always the fidgeter in class and you were the quiet one, silent and still and better at drawing than you were at anything else, and that made you dumb, when you were young, silent and still and dumb, practically invisible, but Warren had come up to you in seventh grade and leaned his chin on your shoulder, his airy blonde hair tickling your cheek and said, “Hey, whatcha drawing?” and since then--

Well, there’d been a lot of stuff since then, and now his hand was on your dick and his dick was touching your dick too, rubbing all right along it, and he was maybe thrusting a little bit or maybe just shaking a lot, and you were whispering, “Warren…”

You thought he might have forgotten that he was going to stick his cock down your throat. He’d gotten all single-minded in that way of his. Once something stuck in Warren’s mind, that was it, all he’d talk about for months and months, until the logical _denouement_ or until he realised the idea was fucking stupid. That’s why you were going to rob your college, after all.

You wondered, the way he was looking at it, if he was gonna get obsessive like that about your dick.

He shot back with a spat curse, onto his haunches above you, his hands up by his head like a surrender. The palm he’d had wrapped around both of you caught a bit of light from the shabby hotel bulb, switched on but barely lit, and you thought calmly, _that is my pre-come on Warren’s hand._

“You want me to try the thing with my throat again?” You asked him, and he clucked his teeth against his tongue, looking at your dick and not your face, and he said, “No, fuck, just, shut up, just don’t say anything, okay?”

And he shifted back, back, right back to the edge of the mattress, his ass on your ankles, his hands braced either side of your hips, staring at your boner glassily.

“Oh,” you said again. This time it sounded like--

Well, it did sound like _oh_ but more like _o-oh?_ because suddenly your dick was in Warren’s mouth.

All the times you’d thought about how maybe one day Warren was probably going to fuck you. You hadn’t actually considered this. You hadn’t even wanted it, not really, because you just couldn’t imagine Warren doing it of his own volition. You were the receptacle. Quiet, still. An easy lay. Warren was too wriggly for you to ever think about fucking.

So you looked at him putting your dick in his mouth and held your breath, the exact same way you’d stared at that black bear you saw once, out camping with Warren, when you were sixteen and your mother had thought it would be nice for you to have a few nights out in McCreary with your Pop, but instead you’d gone with Warren, bought a stupid flabby tent from Home Depot that neither of you could put up and just curled up in your sweaters and sleeping bags under the stars instead, and anyway, on the second morning, you’d been washing in the stream near camp, cupfuls of chilly water under your armpits, and maybe half a mile in the distance, you saw something move in the brush, and you looked up, expecting a bird or maybe some deer or whatever, and it was a bear, a black bear, clear as coal against the bright spring forest, and it hadn’t seen you, it was just ambling past, but you were frozen, eyes wide, you could feel your eyelids straining your eyes were so wide, and you hadn’t moved a muscle until it passed, long after it passed, so long that Warren was like dude, where the fuck were you, you get lost taking a shit? and your heart was pounding when you said no, a bear, a fucking honest to god bear, Warren--

That’s how you felt. When Warren leant forward and took in as much of your dick as he could, and for a brief second you felt the flutter of his throat around the head of it, wet and ethereal, before he had to pull back, gagging--

You thought he’d retch. For a second you thought he’d throw up on your boner.

But he just dry heaved and then swallowed a couple times and then went back in, determined. That weird laser-focus. On you and your dick.

You didn’t know if it was cool for you to grab his shoulder, to clench your fist in his hair, to squeeze your thighs around his shoulders, so you just held onto the scratchy bedsheets and screwed your eyes shut and breathed frantically through your nose while Warren sucked you off. It probably wasn’t a good suck job, but it was the first one you’d had.

He’d told you not to say anything but you didn’t want to come in his mouth. Really desperately, you didn’t want to jizz up in his mouth like--

Like some kind of--

He was supposed to be coming in you. You’d been ready for that. You’d--

One time, you’d filled up this squeezy bottle with milk, one of those wheezing plastic bottles that sportsmen use, and you’d--tilted it up, in your mouth, and clenched hard, and tried to swallow everything it spurted at the back of your throat, because when--

When Warren came in your mouth, which you always assumed he would at least once, you didn’t want to balk and fuck it up, you wanted to swallow it, no mess, no fuss, so that he’d think you were decent at it and maybe do it again sometime. Sometimes.

But he was grabbing at the hem of your shirt and tugging it down like he wanted you to get a move on, and again all you could fucking say was, “Oh,” and this one was the worst one, this one was _ohh--!_ because you were coming.

He hadn’t practised. He pulled off as soon as the first pulse of come hit his tongue. Pulled off, jerking back, so it all hit up his mouth and his neck and his collarbone and he was, oh, he was tugging his own dick so fast, he was masturbating and had been the whole time he’d been sucking you off, and this was better, this was easier to look at, the sight of Warren jerking his dick frantically while he knelt above you, as long as you ignored the fact that your jizz was dripping off the point of his chin and down onto your stomach, just under the lip of your tee, and then he yelled, actually yelled, kind of hurt-sounding, and came so hard it oozed all along your chest, right on your clothes, why the fuck hadn’t you taken that shirt off, it was ruined now, you’d have to throw it away because you had been masturbating for like seven years now and still didn’t know how to get come stains out of your clothes, and Warren’s face, Warren’s face looked so pained, you’d both been giggling so much at the start of the night and now he just looked hurt and pink-flushed and beautiful but still hurt--

You didn’t know if it was okay for you to say anything yet.

He collapsed on top of you. You could feel all that sport muscle in his chest; not so much in his belly. He drank too much beer.

His come had been hot a second ago.

Now it felt like jello squashed between your bodies, sticking to your skin. You wanted to shower but didn’t want to push him off; but then you remembered that you’d taken this room because the clerk had told you the shower was broken and if you still wanted it he’d give you ten bucks off the going rate.

“Spencer,” Warren mumbled, from somewhere near your shoulder.

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t--I don’t wanna talk about this in the morning,” Warren said.

“Oh,” you said, for the seven hundredth time that night. Just plain _oh._

He rolled off you eventually, and the faucet in the bathroom was working even if the shower was fucked, so you dabbed wet some toilet roll and wiped down your chest and stomach; threw the tissue in the toilet and got some more and wiped down your soft dick, except you got it too wet, and bits of tissue got stuck to your dick and you ended up brushing it down with your damp palms even though you were over-sensitive, hissing through your teeth. You felt stupidly tearful. It’s not like it hurt. It just felt a lot.

Warren was asleep by the time you got back in bed.

You clambered back into your jeans. Pulled the blankets over him, up to his waist. He’d probably meant to sleep with his back to you, but had already rolled over to the middle of the mattress. You got into bed carefully. You--

You watched Warren sleep.

You watched Warren sleep most of the night because you couldn’t sleep yourself, and practiced relaxing your throat.


End file.
